“Mine,” he said, kneeling between her spread thighs, his eyes fierce on hers as he lifted her, pressed against her still-quivering flesh and then filled her with one hard thrust.
Jessie’s breath left her on a thin sound that was nearly a scream, her slim body shuddering under the impact of his entry. She let go of the footboard and reached for him, nails biting into his shoulders as she dragged him down into her arms, needing the weight of his body on hers, needing to feel him, all of him.
She could taste herself on his mouth, feel her heart beating to his rhythm even as her body arched to take him deeper, harder, faster, taking even as she was being taken. It was no longer possible to tell where one began and the other ended. There was no Matt. No Jessie. Just mattandjessie, one entity. Moving. Straining. Reaching. Finding. Oh God, finding.
“Mine.” He ground the word out, his back arching as he gave in to the pulsing demand of release, emptying himself into her.
“Yes,” Jessie moaned, shuddering beneath him. “Yours.” And she followed him right off the edge of the world.
Her hands slid off his damp back to lie limply against the polished oak floor. She wanted to hold him, but she had no strength, no coordination. The floor was hard beneath her back, but the discomfort was a vague, distant thing. She was going to have bruises in the morning, she thought, from the floor, from Matt’s hands on her hips. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered right now except holding on to this hazy, golden feeling as long as possible.
His body still shuddering with the force of his climax, Matt realized that Jessie lay unmoving beneath him. After everything else he’d done to her, he was probably crushing her. Struggling with muscles that didn’t seem to want to work, he lifted his weight on his elbows. She moaned, a soft little sound of distress that heaped coals on his already aching conscience.
What had he done? His hand trembling, he brushed a lock of hair back from her damp cheek. She turned her face into his touch as if seeking comfort, making his heart twist. He lifted himself away from her, reaching to gather her up into his arms, vague thoughts of warm baths and hot chocolate and groveled apologies dancing through his head. As if anything could make up for the way he’d… Jesus, he’d fallen on her like an animal.
“Here, baby, let me help you.”
“Hmm?” With a supreme effort of will, Jessie managed to open her eyes. Matt was kneeling over her, his broad shoulders blocking the light as he lifted her. “Help me?”
“I didn’t mean… There’s nothing I can say that… Let me get you up, baby.” Her body was lax in his hold, her head falling back as if too heavy for her neck to support. Regret scored deep claw marks into his already battered conscience.
“That’s okay,” she murmured, letting her eyes close again. “I’m okay here. I’ll move later. Maybe in a day or two.”
Something in her tone made him hesitate. She didn’t sound upset. She sounded…sated. Frowning, he braced her limp weight against his knee and looked down into her face. No tears. No cringing fear. She looked…pleased. Like a woman who’d been well and thoroughly loved.
“Jessie, you aren’t… Aren’t you upset?”
That made her open her eyes again. “About what?”
“About… Well, hell, I just…ravaged you on the floor.”
“I know.” Her mouth curved in a pleased little smile as she curved her body into his hold. “It was incredible.”
Incredible? He’d dragged her to the floor and taken her like an animal and she said it was incredible? Matt stared down at her, caught between illogical irritation, reluctant amusement and a twinge of satisfaction that he tried hard to suppress.
“Jessie, I tore your clothes off.”
“Yes. I’ve read about people doing that, but I never imagined I’d get to experience it. It was amazing.” She cuddled closer, one hand stroking up and down his arm. “But the floor is starting to get a little hard. Do you think we could—”
Matt was up and had her cradled against his chest before she could finish the sentence. She looped her arms around his neck, letting her head rest on his shoulder as he carried her the few feet to the bed and set her down on the cool sheets. Before he could step back, she caught his hand, tugging until he sat on the bed next to her. She lay back against the pillows, her hair spilling around her face in a tangle of dark gold curls. Her mouth was softly swollen, her eyes warm and languid. She made no effort to cover herself, just lay there, watching him, offering herself to him.
Despite himself, he felt new arousal stir. He lifted one hand to trace an imaginary line from the hollow at the base of her throat down between her breasts, finally coming to rest low on her belly. He spread his hand out just above the tangle of damp curls, finger to thumb spanning her from hipbone to hipbone.
She wasn’t very big, he thought. He forgot that sometimes. She was so alive, so…sturdy, somehow, that it was easy to forget that she was so much smaller than he was, so much more delicate. There were marks on her hips where he’d gripped her, marks that would be bruises tomorrow, and the undersides of her breasts bore the faint redness of whisker burn. He’d never taken a woman with less care. Never wanted a woman so desperately that taking care had been an impossibility.
It wasn’t the taking that bothered him, he admitted, stroking his thumb across the shallow indentation of her belly button and seeing her stomach jerk in response. It was the reason behind it. He hadn’t just wanted her, he’d wanted to mark her, to brand her as his. He’d been jealous. Jealous that she was thinking about Reilly. Jealous of her concern for the other man.
He thought he’d come to terms with whatever it was Jessie felt for Reilly. He’d accepted it. Okay, so he’d basically wadded the idea up into a sweaty little ball and shoved it to the back of a mental closet. That was okay. That worked. He didn’t dwell on it, didn’t worry about it, rarely even thought about it. He didn’t object when Reilly got all touchy-feely with her. Reilly was a touchy-feely kind of guy, always had been. It didn’t mean a thing.
But then he’d been standing behind her, touching her, wanting her, needing her, dammit. In his mind, he’d pictured unbuttoning the little pearl buttons on her nightgown, kissing the soft flesh revealed after each one. After two months as her lover, he knew just how to touch her so that she would melt in his arms, knew every little sigh and murmur, the way she arched to meet his touch. Just the thought of it had him hard and aching.
Then she’d opened her mouth and mentioned Reilly, and something had snapped inside him. Without even thinking about it, he’d set out to make sure she could think of nothing and no one but him. It wasn’t so much his actions that bothered him but his motivations.
Still, it was hard to hold on to his guilt when she looked so damned…replete, but he gave it one more try.
“Jessie, I—”
She silenced him by pressing her fingers to his mouth. “Matt, do you know how it makes me feel to know you wanted me that much? That you just ripped my nightgown off so you could get your hands on me?”
He took her hand in his, wrapping his fingers around it, struck by how small it looked in his, by how fragile she was compared to him. “I could have hurt you.”
“No, you couldn’t.” She shook her head when he started to speak. “Matt, you could never hurt me.”
She sounded so sure, as if she knew him better than he knew himself. Maybe she did, he thought, letting the last little trace of guilt fade away beneath the warmth in her eyes. Maybe she did.
He leaned down to press his mouth to hers. Gently, so gently. Asking where he’d demanded. Coaxing where he’d taken. Jessie’s breath slid from her on a sigh, her arms coming up to circle his neck and pull him down onto the bed. Her body lay warm and pliant against his, her skin rose-petal soft under his hands.
This time, he made it slow and gentle. Quiet whispers and butterfly kisses. Warm and soft and all the time in the world to savor the taste and smell and warmth that was Jessie. He made it last, dragging out every touch, every sensation,
until she was writhing against the sheets, skin damp and breath coming in ragged little moans as she begged him to end it, to take her. And even that was achingly slow. Slick heat and pressure. Slim body arching to take him deep, so deep. Need and hunger building slowly, so slowly. The climax rolled over them, a long, slow wave of pleasure that lifted them together, tumbled them deep, and left them both panting and breathless on the tangled sheets.
For a long time it was all he could do just to lie there, half sprawled over Jessie, bodies still joined, his face buried in the fragrant tumble of her hair, his heart pounding like a wild thing in his chest. Her fingers drifted up and down his sweat-dampened back, shoulder to hip and back again in slow, soothing strokes. She turned her face to rest her cheek against his, releasing her breath in a warm sigh that stirred the hair above his ear.
“Do you think we can make this a Thanksgiving tradition?” she murmured, her voice slurring into sleep. ‘’S important to have traditions, you know.”
The last thing he’d expected was to find himself grinning like a loon into the silky softness of her hair. Only Jessie could possibly make him want to laugh at a time like this. The last hour had been an emotional roller coaster. Lust, jealousy, regret, guilt, passion—enough angst to fuel his own personal soap opera. And now laughter. God, he loved this woman.
He closed his eyes, his smile fading as the knowledge washed over him. Wasn’t that a hell of a thing? He loved her. He’d managed to go half a lifetime without falling in love, and when he finally took the plunge it was with his own wife. That was the good news. The bad news was that she was probably in love with his best friend. Shit, he really was living in a soap opera.
He fell asleep on the thought, waking in the dark hours before dawn, shaking and sweating with the sound of gunfire and his own screams ringing in his ears.
Chapter Sixteen
Christmas was in the air. It wasn’t the frost on the windows, have-a-cup-of-buttered-rum sort of Christmas that Norman Rockwell had painted, but even with the palm trees and blue skies and weather that barely qualified for the term nippy, the air still held a subtle holiday vibration.
Jessie shut the door of the Mustang and stepped up on the sidewalk, digging in her purse for change for the meter. Feeling a mixture of guilt and defiance, she fed quarters into the slot. As near as she could tell, Matt thought parking meters were an invention of the devil or maybe part of some plot by alien agents to take over the planet. He would rather park two blocks from his destination than sacrifice a dime to pay for parking.
She found the irrational little quirk perversely satisfying. He was usually so rational, so logical. It was nice to know that he could be just as nuts as the rest of the world. Not that he saw it as nuts, but any man who could do a five-minute riff on the economic evils of parking meters was definitely a few bubbles off of full plumb.
Turning away from the meter, she slid her hands in the pockets of her bright red swing coat and drew a deep breath. Caramel corn and candy canes. If she’d been plunked down here blindfolded, she would have known exactly where she was, just by the smells.
Mrs. McCurdy’s Candy Shop was a popular spot for the couples who stayed at the Willow Inn. Tucked in between a card shop and a florist, the front entry was decorated with red-and-white-striped awnings and curlicue script. In the summer, wrought-iron tables sat on the sidewalk, inviting patrons to sit and enjoy an ice-cold drink and a sweet treat. The red-and-white theme was continued inside, punctuated by a carefully polished antique oak bar, where patrons could sit and watch fudge being stirred or penuche being poured onto wax paper– lined trays. Matt referred to the decor as Early American Tourist Trap, but Jessie thought it had a certain self-conscious charm, almost like you were invited to share the joke, to laugh at the too-cute decor. And not even the most determined cynic could argue with the quality of the candy, which was the reason Mrs. McCurdy did a fine business with the locals, too.
The first Christmas after Jessie had come to live with her grandfather, he’d brought her to Mrs. McCurdy’s and bought her a big bag of caramel corn and a dozen fat, glossy candy canes—the real thing, he’d told her firmly, not the red-and-gold sugar sticks masquerading as peppermint. He’d lifted her up onto one of the wrought-iron stools so she could watch the candy-making process, and, to an eight-year-old, that had been magic enough to help her forget, for just a little while, that her parents were gone forever.
Since then, she’d made it a point to come here with her grandfather every December. He’d been too ill to make the trip last year, so she’d brought home bags of caramel corn, and candy canes to decorate the tree and use to stir the eggnog. Though they hadn’t spoken of it, they’d both known it would be their last Christmas together, and the knowledge had put a bittersweet edge on the holiday. She’d expected to spend this Christmas alone, and had even thought that maybe she would take a trip, maybe spend the whole month in New York or even Paris, hide away from the memories.
Life was full of surprises. Jessie’s mouth curved as she contemplated how different things were from the way she’d expected them to be. Instead of a lonely hotel room in Paris, she was spending her first Christmas with Matt, shopping for presents and a tree, buying ornaments and decorating. All those traditional family things.
And next year… Jessie’s smile widened. Still standing by the parking meter, she rocked back and forth on the heels of her sneakers, barely resisting the urge to laugh out loud. Next year they were going to have a family to go with the tree and the ornaments.
A baby. She was going to have a baby.
It was all she could do to keep from throwing her arms wide and shouting the news to the world. She, Jessica Lenore Sinclair Latimer, was going to have a baby. She pressed her hand to her stomach, wondering if it was just her imagination or maybe there was a teeny tiny, infinitesimal bulge there? Okay, so maybe it wasn’t likely that she was showing at three weeks, but it wasn’t impossible, was it?
At the first sign of a bulge, she was going to go out and buy herself the most pregnant-looking maternity dress she could find. Eat your heart out, Pammie Sue, she thought. We high-powered career women slash part-time chefs can have babies, too.
She hadn’t told Matt yet, but she knew he would be pleased. The baby thing might have been her idea, but she knew he was looking forward to it, too. It was funny. A couple of months ago, she’d thought that having a baby was what she needed to make her life complete. Now it was icing on the cake. A wonderful, amazing, fantastic bonus to a life that already felt pretty darned complete. Maybe she would tell Matt that tonight.
Maybe she would tell him after the special you’re-going-to-be-a-daddy meal she had planned, after they were settled on the living-room sofa, Matt’s long legs stretched out along the cushions, his head in her lap, her fingers sifting through his dark hair. It had become one of their favorite ways to spend an evening. Sometimes they watched a video, but, more often, Matt would start a fire and they would just watch the flames dance against the bricks.
“Jessie?”
The sound of her name brought her out of her daydream, and she turned, smiling automatically when she saw Dana approaching. The smile took on a rueful edge. Just when she started to think she could actually come to like the other woman, she showed up looking as if she’d just stepped off the cover of Vogue. The heather-gray ribbed-knit dress was a simple column from cowl neck to midcalf, broken only by the wide black belt that was cinched loosely around Dana’s narrow waist. Black boots, a lightweight black jacket and a chunky gold and silver necklace completed the outfit. Her pale blond hair was pulled back into a French braid, and the clear winter sunlight was ridiculously flattering to her exquisite features.
“I was ordering some flowers for the holiday,” Dana said, nodding toward the florist shop. “I wasn’t sure it was you until I saw the car.”
“I guess if I want to go incognito, I should drive a Toyota.”
“Or choose a less eye-catching color,” Dana said, a smile warmi
ng her eyes.
“Cherry red isn’t exactly subtle.” Jessie shifted to the side to clear a path for a pair of young boys on skateboards. “I never could get the hang of that,” she commented, looking after the pair. “Matt and Reilly both tried to teach me, but all I managed to do was end up with permanent friction burns on my palms.”
“When I was eight, I spent three weeks at camp, and one of the counselors taught me how to ride a skateboard,” Dana said, turning to watch the boys weave their way around the sidewalk’s other occupants. “It was the most amazing feeling. Like flying.”
“So if I decide to add skateboard junkie to my list of accomplishments, I should talk to you?”
“No.” Dana seemed to shake herself a little before turning to look at Jessie. “I haven’t been on a skateboard since then. My mother was furious that they’d let me do something so dangerous.”
“Skateboarding?” Jessie’s brows rose. “I know you can get hurt, but I don’t think I’d put it up there with bungee jumping off bridges or running with the bulls at Pamplona.”
“No, but scraped elbows and bandages on your knees are not the way to a judge’s heart,” Dana said dryly.
Jessie remembered the other woman saying something similar on Thanksgiving Day, when they’d been talking about family. Dana had mentioned that she wasn’t close to her brother and sister, in part because she’d had to be careful. Looking at her, Jessie suddenly thought of Matt’s comment that he didn’t think Dana was cold, he thought she was lonely, and how she’d dismissed the idea with some flippant remark about him not seeing beyond the surface beauty. But it was becoming pretty clear that she was the one who hadn’t seen beyond the surface. Jealousy was not a pretty emotion.
Loving Jessie Page 26
